Between Sheets and Arms
by Wofl
Summary: He squeezes his eyes tighter, buries his face in the pillow, and tries to think of ice and rain and the dead kitten he’s seen in the road a week ago [HeiAl]


He wakes, not with the chill clinging at the edges of the blankets as he has come to expect, but with fire, heat twisting around him uncomfortably. His limbs are slick with sweat; his cheeks burn uncomfortably and the blankets are absolutely _stifling._ And that's not right, he thinks, because it is winter, and usually it is downright frigid when he wakes up.

That is, after all, the reason he is piled into a bed with both his brother and his doppelganger. Nights are too cold to spend alone, and three is an uneven number. It is the only compromise the trio can derive.

But the lack of the usual chill is not the only thing that is wrong, whispers his brain, when it clears a little. Because Alphonse has his eyes open now, and he cannot _see_, and if he can't see, that means it is still dark, and…

He whimpers, jerks his hips as he feels the first touch, a heavy arm is draped over his chest and Edward clings to him tightly in his sleep, fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt. The older boy shifts again, incomprehensible words mumbled but Al cannot hear them, oh fuck, because his brother is unconsciously dragging the rough fabric across his skin and his nipples are rock hard…

It seems, Alphonse realizes, that he has a bit of a problem.

And it would not be so _much_ of a problem, he thinks, if it were not for the…rather unorthodox sleeping arrangements. He is caught in the middle, brother on one side, irritating his unwelcome arousal as he sleeps and Alfons on the other, slumbering quietly, irritating merely in the way that he blocks the youngest boy's escape from the bed.

It would be impossible, he thinks, trying to not to squirm, to creep from the room, make it to the bathroom without waking, stumbling, awkward explanations and embarrassment tinged cheeks and it's not his _fault _damnit. He knows, scientifically, that it happens, it is perfectly natural, but can't help the flush it brings to his cheeks when he thinks of being caught.

But, oh, is it hard to think when sensitive skin is rubbed almost raw, and his groin aches with dissatisfaction, and he can't help the whine that slithers up from the depths of his aching chest. He is helpless, absolutely helpless, to stop himself when his brother jerks again, fist tugging and again that horrible, maddening, infuriating, I wonderful /I drag of thick woven fibers, his shirt drowning him in sensation and incoherency and the next thing he knows, he is thrusting, hips wild, pushing forward of their own accord.

It is with a growing sense of dread, that he realizes his movements have disturbed the third occupant of the bed. His brother is still fast asleep, dead to the world in his unconscious stupor, Alphonse doubts that even an earthquake could wake Edward, but Alfons…oh god. Alphonse almost feels like crying when the other boy stirs, blinks at him sleepily from across the pillow.

"Alphonse?" His name is a whisper, obvious confusion, laced with sleep as his look-alike frowns at him, one fist rubbing at his eye. "What time is it?"

The clock across the room tells him that it is quarter to three in the morning, but he can only stare at Alfons with dazed eyes, breath erratic and he is I still hard /I . When he can say nothing, - mouth hanging open slightly, and he feels hot, dizzy, even as the terror of disgust and rejection sends a caustic shock through his veins- Alfons quirks an eyebrow at him, threads of concern weaving across his expression as Alphonse continues to stare and breathe.

He knows, when he feels the shift behind him, the telltale grunt as Edward shifts again, that he is doomed. The feeling is the same, air traps in his lungs, and the reaction is the same, same, same, frantic bucking of hips, whimper clawing from his throat and the look of utter confusion on Alfons' face is too much for him to bear.

He groans, half from his arousal and half from mortified embarrassment, and squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't bother to open them when Alfons whispers to him again, a questioning note steeped into his name. He keeps them closed even when he feels the covers lifted away, chill rushing to meet his searing skin, silence making him cringe, until at least he hears the 'oh' that pops from the other boy's mouth as he finally comprehends the situation and until that instant, Alphonse has never truly known humiliation.

He tugs at his bonds of flesh and fingers; now that he is awake, surely Alfons will let him out of the bed. But his brother is strong, even in sleep, and his grip on the younger boy is like iron, flesh arm draped over Alphonse's side, pinning down his arm, the other pinned by his own body weight. He squirms, wiggles, and twists – to no effect. He is caught thoroughly, and he can't even get a hand free, let alone go off to use it.

He squeezes his eyes tighter, buries his face in the pillow, and tries to think of ice and rain and the dead kitten he's seen in the road a week ago; anything to kill the sensations coursing through his body. The shift of the bed (really, two beds pushed together, mattresses turned horizontal so the pair won't break apart and spill them onto the floor) doesn't even register, nothing does, until…!

He jerks, violently, --doesn't know_ how_ his brother manages to sleep through it—as he feels a tentative touch, two fingers brushing at the front of his boxers and I ohmygod /I any flaccidity he managed to gain is lost. He grunts, the noise echoes, wet and strangled, in the chilly air of the room.

And then, touches bolder, a warm palm pressing harder against his groin and Alphonse's nostrils flare, rapid inhale, exhale, chest heaving as his stomach knots, brain melts. It takes him a long time to stop concentrating on the sensation long enough to realize that _Alfons is touching his cock_.

If he hadn't been able to think before, Alphonse knows now that he has gone completely incoherent with need because that's just not possible. Why on earth would he be doing that? But it doesn't matter, not in the slightest, just as long Alfons keeps doing that!

The younger boy moans, gasps, wails softly in denial when the hand moves away. He quiets only when he feels the fingers return, higher up, pulling at his boxers until he is bare, shame forgotten in the face of feeling. And then, that hand is back, flesh on flesh and Alphonse didn't know just how amazing it would feel, to be touched by something other than his own hand. He wheezes and bucks and can only whimper when his brother shifts again, his nipples and his entire body jolts, like electricity running through his spine.

Light touches become a loose fist. Alfons' grip is light, gentle, mindful of their lack of lubricant and he is careful not to squeeze too tightly or move too quickly, but the younger boy cannot help but think he wouldn't mind the burn if only the hand gripping him would move faster. He struggles with his pinned arms, tries to free them so that he can do it himself; but just when he thinks he'll manage it, his brother grunts and mumbles something that is halfway coherent.

One look at Alfons' eyes - great blue saucers peering at him desperately in the dark of the room - is enough to still the younger boy, all actions halted until Edward settles again. And it's so hard to hold still, every quivering muscle in his body shrieking at him to move. But then Edward begins to snore, gently, a sure sign that he is sleeping deeply and Alfons exhales shakily and begins to move again.

Fingers squeeze tighter, move faster, and Alphonse hisses a bit, relishes the rising burn of friction. If his entire being were not on fire already, nerves screaming throughout every centimeter of his boy, he suspects it might be rather painful, but he can't bring himself to care, not when there is motion and heat and he –

Can't think can't hear can't see can't breathe

Something in his stomach that was coiled and knotted, shooting fire through his veins, releases. His back arches, best it can, muscles sing, and he is coming, semen spatters white across Alfons' hand and the younger boy goes limp, panting in his brother's unshakeable grip.

A foggy haze settles over his senses. He can feel the pillow beneath his head, and it is soft and wonderful and all he needs. Yes, sleep would be nice.

He doesn't even realize that Alfons has left until he returns, a damp towel in hand. He sits on the edge of the bed and begins to clean up the mess. The water is cold though, and Alphonse gasps at the first touch of the wet material to his skin. He shivers as Alfons swipes the towel across his stomach, methodically, but does not protest.

A moment passes, two perhaps, Alphonse is still half lost in a vague sense of timeless bliss. But soon enough, the task it finished, evidence eradicated and Alfons is tugging his boxers back up around his hips.

The bed creaks softly as Alfons stands, balling up the towel. He turns to drop it off in the bathroom and wash his hands, but Alphonse's voice, whispered and shaky, stops him.

"Hey, ummm," he pauses, gathers his wits and courage and meets Alfons' eyes. "Thanks." The word is timid, awkward, but it is enough.

"Heh," and Alfons' expression adopts a tiny smile, perhaps a little embarrassment. "Don't mention it. Just…uh… don't tell your brother. I think he'd skin me alive."

A nervous laugh and Alfons casts a surreptitious glance towards Edward, just to be _sure_ he's still asleep.

"Wouldn't dream of it," the younger mumbles sleepily, shifting as best he can in Ed's grip. He presses his face into the pillows to hide a smile of his own as Alfons leaves to take care of the dirty towel.

And if Alfons remains in the bathroom for _far_ longer than it should take to dispose of dirty laundry (and makes a little _too_ much noise), Alphonse pretends not to notice.


End file.
